Broken
by Allume a Pense
Summary: She dragged the knife against her skin and blood poured out by the pint. Finally, Mitchie opened her eyes and sighed with relief, laying herself down on the couch. "Goodbye Mitchie," he whispered, "I loved you."


**whoaaa your getting another update!  
****you lucky dogs.  
****anyway, i am going to update **memory **one of these days...  
****thank you for the reviews on **whisky lullaby!

**i am writing this because of the alleged 'demi lovato cutting' scandal.  
****i have photos on my profile if you have no idea what im talking about.  
****she claims they're from bracelets but they look pretty real to me...  
****anyway, please review!**

**play: **"broken" -lifehouse  
**you may have to repeat it a few times to read the whole story with it.**

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Mitchie laid her cool cheek to the window of the Connect 3 tour bus, tears falling in line down her cheek. The bright lights of the venue contrasted against the black sky, while confetti flew out from the open-top building. She could faintly make out the sound of Shane Gray's voice booming over a complex microphone system. He was thanking the fans for a great show, and they were graciously welcoming him with cheers and screaming.

She had agreed to go on tour with the boys about three months ago. But the on-the-road lifestyle had not been good to her. Mitchie found herself locked up most of the time on the bus, much like a caged animal. Their managers and handlers wouldn't let her off the bus, in fear that it would spark controversy. Nate, Jason and Shane were free to come and go as they pleased, leaving Mitchie to choke on her collar. She hadn't seen her family or friends in three months. To make matters worse, Shane had completely lost interest in a romance with her.

He'd even found a new girlfriend. Her name was Taylor, and she was blonde, beautiful and _famous_. Although she was kind to Mitchie, there's no way she could compete. Mitchie's cell phone began to buzz and she sorrowfully looked down to see the Connect 3 stage manager's name flashing on the caller ID. He was probably only calling to make sure the bus was okay. She ignored the call and sighed, her breath creating a cloud of condensation on the window.

She couldn't take this anymore. Her auburn waves fell loosely around her delicately shoulders. The teenage Torres' brownish-gray eyes blinked twice, trying to rid themselves of the tears. Quietly, she looked down at her wrists. They were adorned with random scars running across each wrist. When the boys had asked her about them, she put on a smile – put on the best show she knew – and told them it was from bracelets. For a moment, she wondered why nobody bothered to notice that she never wore bracelets.

But she was glad they didn't bother her about it. She knew it was unhealthy and untimely, but she couldn't help herself. To Mitchie, it was the only way she could let out her sorrow. Her songs had become lifeless and her voice was coated in dust. No longer was she someone to appreciate, someone to listen to, or someone to comfort. She had merely become something to _look _at. And even here, she was failing at that.

Moving for the first time in two hours, Mitchie reached over to the kitchen counter where the knives were kept in a wooden block. No one was in the bus to hear her crying, so she let it all out. Gently, Mitchie laid the flat side of the large knife against her cheek. The metal was cold – but was nothing compared to the window or her heart. She swallowed hard and placed the blade against her left wrist, gripping the knife with her right. She slid the knife slowly through her skin. It lightly sliced open the top layer of her skin. Only one bead of blood formed.

She lifted the knife and laid it back down on an unmarked spot of skin. This time she dragged it through with a bit more pressure. It didn't hurt, but more blood seeped out. It started to trickle off of her smooth buttery skin, making a drop on the throw pillow in her lap. Mitchie let another sob out as she placed the knife back on her wrist and tried for a third time.

She cut a few more times, and with each time, more blood poured out. There was not a small puddle seeped into the pillow, and her wrist was drenched in the thin red liquid. Mitchie realized, that with every cut, the lighter she felt. It almost felt as if when she was cutting, and the more blood that left her body, more of her emotional pain would go with it. This wasn't a matter of attention, or "look at me", or anything. She simply inflicted her own frustration and loss upon herself. Why? Because she blamed herself.

If she were prettier, Shane would like her. If she were famous, or more talented, she'd be let out of the bus. If she were smarter, she would have stayed home. If she were worth missing, her parents would call more than once a week. There were too many faults in herself that she couldn't bear to think of them anymore. As Mitchie let out one last sigh, she placed the blade of her knife against her torn wrist once more. Shutting her eyes, she let thoughts flood her mind one last time. Each happy thought was another push over the edge. From Camp Rock to Final Jam, to moonlit canoe rides and back again to happy music that she could no longer produce.

Useless. That's what she was.

Mitchie mouthed the words '_I'm Sorry' _to no one in particular. This was it. She was going to press the knife as far down as possible and pull. She didn't want to have to live this for another second.

But just as Mitchie was about to pull, the tour bus door swung open. "Mitchie? Mitchie, don't!"

But that was it for her. That voice – she knew it. She dragged the knife against her skin and blood poured out by the pint. Finally, Mitchie opened her eyes and sighed with relief, laying herself down on the couch. The blood from her wrist dripped onto her shirt, already wet with blood. She could feel her heart slowing down. The boy rushed over to her side, and she turned to look at him.

Those beautiful eyes. They didn't match the voice she had heard. But there was no one else in the bus. Had she heard wrong? Was she only hearing the voice she expected? Because this was not the boy she had anticipated. Her brown eyes tried to make out the gently lit silhouette. There were tears forming in his eyes. "Mitchie, why? Please don't go. I'm going to call you an ambulance."

He fumbled around with his cell phone. Mitchie shook her head. "Don't." she cried. "I don't want to be saved. Please don't. Don't for me."

Painfully, he complied to her last wish. "Why?" he whispered, wiping away one of her tears.

"I can't live this life anymore." she whispered, whimpering. She wasn't crying over herself anymore – she was crying over him. How could she not have seen him? When they all left, he still waited for her, girlfriend or not. He looked genuinely hurt by her actions. When she had cut, she thought she was only hurting herself. But maybe she was wrong. "Why are you here?"

He couldn't help but let out a sob as he reached next to him on the ground and placed a rose on her chest. "I wanted to ask you," he had to pause to calm himself enough to speak clearly, "if you wanted to go out with me."

Mitchie was shocked. She couldn't stop the tears from flowing now. More blood left her body and with that, her vision was becoming more and more unclear. Her heart skipped a beat and her body felt weak. She wasn't quite sure if this was the product of happiness or dying. "If I had known..." she whispered.

He shook his head. "I'm sorry that it had to come to this."

She nodded. "I'm so sorry." she whispered. There was only an ounce of strength left in her frail body. She felt her heart slowing and coming to a stop. The last look of her eyes was once of intense regret. "I'm sorry." she repeated. "Goodbye."

"Goodbye Mitchie." he sighed, standing up. Nate looked down upon her still body. "I loved you."

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**i'm sorry that you had two sad stories in a row.  
****but i do love nitchie and i hope you do too!  
****thanks, please review!**


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